They’ve got a jolly old manor-house; they asked me down there.”
Soames coughed: the news was distasteful to him. “What’s his wife like now?”
“Very quiet, but nice, I think.”
Soames coughed again. “He’s a rackety chap, your cousin Val.”
“Oh! no, Father; they’re awfully devoted. I promised to go–Saturday to Wednesday next.”
“Training race-horses!” said Soames. It was bad enough, but not the reason for his distaste. Why the deuce couldn’t his nephew have stayed out in South Africa? His own divorce had been bad enough, without his nephew’s marriage to the daughter of the co-respondent; a half-sister too of June, and of that boy whom Fleur had just been looking at from under the pump-handle. If he didn’t look out, Fleur would come to know all about that old disgrace! Unpleasant things! They were round him this afternoon like a swarm of bees!
“I don’t like it!” he said.
“I want to see the race-horses,” murmured Fleur; “and they’ve promised I shall ride. Cousin Val can’t walk much, you know; but he can ride perfectly. He’s going to show me their gallops.”
“Racing!” said Soames. “It’s a pity the War didn’t knock that on the head. He’s taking after his father, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t know anything about his father.”
“No,” said Soames grimly. “He took an interest in horses and broke his neck in Paris, walking down-stairs. Good riddance for your aunt.” He frowned, recollecting the inquiry into those stairs which he had attended in Paris six years ago, because Montague Dartie could not attend it himself–perfectly normal stairs in a house where they played baccarat. Either his winnings or the way he had celebrated them had gone to his brother-inlaw’s head. The French procedure had been very loose; he had had a lot of trouble with it.
A sound from Fleur distracted his attention. “Look! The people who were in the Gallery with us.”
“What people?” muttered Soames, who knew perfectly well.
“I think that woman’s beautiful.”
“Come into this pastry-cook’s,” said Soames abruptly, and tightening his grip on her arm, he turned into a confectioner’s. It was–for him–a surprising thing to do, and he said rather anxiously: “What will you have?”
“Oh! I don’t want anything. I had a cocktail and a tremendous lunch.”
“We MUST have something now we’re here,” muttered Soames, keeping hold of her arm.
“Two teas,” he said; “and two of those nougat things.”
But no sooner was his body seated than his soul sprang up. Those three–those three were coming in! He heard Irene say something to her boy, and his answer:
“Oh! no, Mum; this place is all right. My stunt.” And the three sat down.
At that moment, most awkward of his existence, crowded with ghosts and shadows from his past, in presence of the only two women he had ever loved–his divorced wife and his daughter by her successor–Soames was not so much afraid of THEM as of his cousin June. She might make a scene–she might introduce those two children–she was capable of anything. He bit too hastily at the nougat, and it stuck to his plate. Working at it with his finger, he glanced at Fleur. She was masticating dreamily, but her eyes were on the boy. The Forsyte in him said: “Think, feel, and you’re done for!” And he wiggled his finger desperately. Plate! Did Jolyon wear a plate? Did that woman wear a plate? Time had been when he had seen her wearing nothing! That was something, anyway, which had never been stolen from him. And she knew it, though she might sit there calm and self-possessed, as if she had never been his wife. An acid humor stirred in his Forsyte blood; a subtle pain divided by hair’s-breadth from pleasure. If only June did not suddenly bring her hornets about his ears! The boy was talking.
“Of course, Auntie June,”–so he called his half-sister “Auntie,” did he? – well, she must be fifty, if she was a day! – “it’s jolly good of you to encourage them. Only–hang it all!” Soames stole a glance. Irene’s startled eyes were bent watchfully on her boy. She–she had these devotions–for Bosinney–for that boy’s father–for this boy! He touched Fleur’s arm, and said:
“Well, have you had enough?”
“One more, Father, please.”
She would be sick! He went to the counter to pay. When he turned round again he saw Fleur standing near the door, holding a handkerchief which the boy had evidently just handed to her.
“F.F.,” he heard her say. “Fleur Forsyte–it’s mine all right. Thank you ever so.”
Good God! She had caught the trick from what he’d told her in the Gallery–monkey!
“Forsyte? Why–that’s my name too. Perhaps we’re cousins.”
“Really! We must be. There aren’t any others. I live at Mapledurham; where do you?”
“Robin Hill.”
Question and answer had been so rapid that all was over before he could lift a finger. He saw Irene’s face alive with startled feeling, gave the slightest shake of his head, and slipped his arm through Fleur’s.
“Come along!” he said.
She did not move.
“Didn’t you hear, Father? Isn’t it queer–our name’s the same. Are we cousins?”
“What’s that?” he said. “Forsyte? Distant, perhaps.”
“My name’s Jolyon, sir. Jon, for short.”
“Oh! Ah!” said Soames. “Yes. Distant. How are you? Very good of you. Good-bye!”
He moved on.
“Thanks awfully,” Fleur was saying. “Au revoir!”
“Au revoir!” he heard the boy reply.
Chapter II.
FINE FLEUR FORSYTE
Emerging from the “pastry-cook’s,” Soames’ first impulse was to vent his nerves by saying to his daughter: “Dropping your handkerchief!” to which her reply might well be: “I picked that up from you!” His second impulse therefore was to let sleeping dogs lie. But she would surely question him. He gave her a sidelong look, and found she was giving him the same. She said softly:
“Why don’t you like those cousins, Father?”
Soames lifted the corner of his lip.
“What made you think that?”
“Cela se voit.”
‘That sees itself!’ What a way of putting it!
After twenty years of a French wife Soames had still little sympathy with her language; a theatrical affair and connected in his mind with all the refinements of domestic irony.
“How?” he asked.
“You MUST know them; and you didn’t make a sign. I saw them looking at you.”
“I’ve never seen the boy in my life,” replied Soames with perfect truth.
“No; but you’ve seen the others, dear.”
Soames gave her another look. What had she picked up? Had her Aunt Winifred, or Imogen, or Val Dartie and his wife, been talking? Every breath of the old scandal had been carefully kept from her at home, and Winifred warned many times that he wouldn’t have a whisper of it reach her for the world. So far as she ought to know, he had never been married before. But her dark eyes, whose southern glint and clearness often almost frightened him, met his with perfect innocence.
“Well,” he said, “your grandfather and his brother had a quarrel. The two families don’t know each other.”
“How romantic!”
‘Now, what does she mean by that?’ he thought. The word was to him extravagant and dangerous–it was as if she had said: “How jolly!”
“And they’ll continue not to know each other,” he added, but instantly regretted the challenge in those words. Fleur was smiling. In this age, when young people prided themselves on going their own ways and paying no attention to any sort of decent prejudice, he had said the very thing to excite her wilfulness. Then, recollecting the expression on Irene’s face, he breathed again.
“What sort of a quarrel?” he heard Fleur say.
“About a house. It’s ancient history for you. Your grandfather died the day you were born. He was ninety.”
“Ninety? Are there many Forsytes besides those in the Red Book?”
“I don’t know,” said Soames. “They’re all dispersed now. The old ones are dead, except Timothy.”
Fleur clasped her hands.
“Timothy? Isn’t that delicious?”
“Not at all,” said Soames. It offended him that she should think “Timothy” delicious–a kind of insult to his breed. This new generation mocked at anything solid and tenacious. “You go and see the old boy. He might want to prophesy.” Ah! If Timothy could see the disquiet England of his greatnephews and greatnieces, he would certainly give tongue. And involuntarily he glanced up at the Iseeum; yes–George was still in the window, with the same pink paper in his hand.
“Where is Robin Hill, Father?”
Robin Hill! Robin Hill, round which all that tragedy had centred! What did she want to know for?
“In Surrey,” he muttered; “not far from Richmond, Why?”
“Is the house there?”
“What house?”
“That they quarrelled about.”
“Yes. But what’s all that to do with you? We’re going home tomorrow–you’d better be thinking about your frocks.”
“Bless you! They’re all thought about. A family feud? It’s like the Bible, or Mark Twain–awfully exciting. What did YOU do in the feud, Father?”
“Never you mind.”
“Oh! But if I’m to keep it up?”
“Who said you were to keep it up?”
“You, darling.”
“I? I said it had nothing to do with you.”
“Just what _I_ think, you know; so that’s all right.”
She was too sharp for him; FINE, as Annette sometimes called her. Nothing for it but to distract her attention.
“There’s a bit of rosaline point in here,” he said, stopping before a shop, “that I thought you might like.”
When he had paid for it and they had resumed their progress, Fleur said:
“Don’t you think that boy’s mother is the most beautiful woman of her age you’ve ever seen?
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